Bad Men Die (17 page)

“Damn right I want a share of the gold, but that's not what I'm talking about.” McCluskey leaned forward and his lips drew back from his teeth as he said, “I want to kill Luke Jensen.”

Harmon just smiled and nodded. “Oh, I reckon that can be arranged.”

Luke spent some time examining the inside of the tack room, looking for a way out or anything he could use as a weapon if he got the chance. He found a set of reins that might work for wrapping around somebody's neck and choking them, but he would have to get close and take his enemy by surprise for that tactic to do any good.

He rolled up the reins and put them in his pocket anyway, just on the chance that they might prove useful later.

Like the rest of the barn, the tack room was solidly built and in good repair. Silas was conscientious about taking care of his business. Even if he hadn't been, the building was relatively new. There weren't any loose or rotted boards. Luke didn't see any way he could get out unless Silas pried that padlock off or somebody came along to unlock it.

Silas couldn't do anything with one of Harmon's men standing guard right outside—and if they unlocked the door it would probably be because they didn't have anything good in mind for the prisoner.

The light coming through the cracks around the door had started to fade a little, telling Luke that it was late afternoon when he heard voices outside the tack room. A moment later, a key scraped in the lock.

He stood with his muscles tensed for action. He wanted to be ready if he got a chance to jump one of his captors and maybe get his hands on a gun. Going down fighting would be better than anything they might have planned for him.

When the door swung open, no one was there. They were all standing back well away from the tack room.

“Come on out of there, Jensen,” Dave Harmon ordered. “And don't try anything. There are two scatterguns pointed at that door, and if you don't come out slow with your hands in plain sight, there won't hardly be enough left of you to scrape up and bury.”

Luke stayed where he was without saying anything.

Harmon sounded irritated as he said, “Damn it, I know you're awake in there by now. Maybe if you heard ol' Silas yellin' in pain out here, you'd be a mite more cooperative. I'd just as soon not do that, since Silas is a good boy, but if that's the way you want it—”

“Leave Silas alone,” Luke said. “I'm coming out.”

As Harmon had ordered, he stepped out of the tack room in deliberate fashion and made sure his hands were partially raised where they would be visible to Harmon and his gunmen.

The cattle baron laughed. “Got somebody out here who wants to see you, Jensen.”

Luke wasn't surprised when he saw Frank McCluskey and Delia standing there. McCluskey had a gun belt strapped around his waist and a holstered Colt on his hip. Delia wore a smirk.

Once again, the outlaw and the blonde had landed on their feet. No matter what sort of predicament they found themselves in, no matter what sort of loco stunt they tried to pull, somehow they survived. Not only survived, but thrived.

More and more, Luke was starting to wonder about that so-called vision McCluskey had had.

Delia said, “He doesn't look shocked to see us, Frank.”

“I don't imagine he is. He knows by now he can't get the best of us. Don't you, Jensen?”

Luke didn't respond to that. He looked instead at Harmon and said, “I thought you were an honest cattleman.”

“A man could take offense at what you're implyin',” Harmon drawled. “I
am
an honest cattleman. I never rustled a single head of stock in all my life. Never cheated any man I ever had business dealin's with, either. You can ask anybody in the territory about that.”

“But you take over a town and your men run roughshod over its citizens.”

“I didn't have to take it over,” Harmon said. “It was my town right from the beginnin'. Always has been, always will be. And as such, my men got a right to take what they want. Folks around here understand that.”

They might understand it, Luke thought, but it didn't mean they liked it. He knew that from talking to Silas Grant. The citizens of Pine City were ripe for a rebellion.

They just needed somebody to lead it.

“You don't mind stealing a bunch of gold, either.”

“What are you talkin' about? I'm not stealin' any gold.” Unbelievably, Harmon sounded sincere in that declaration. “Accordin' to what McCluskey told me, your old friend Burroughs and his men stole that gold. What I'm doin' is more along the lines of salvagin' it. You know what that is, don't you, Jensen? There's a law that applies to ships at sea about how anything brought up from a wreck belongs to whomever brought it up. I reckon the same thing applies to a paddleboat sunk in a river, don't you?”

Luke knew there was no point in arguing with the man. Harmon was loco enough—or just plain arrogant enough—to believe what he was saying. Things had gone too far for him to change his mind.

“What are you going to do with me?” Luke asked.

“Well, McCluskey wanted to just march in here and shoot you. I talked him out of bein' quite that hasty about it.”

From the look on McCluskey's face, he wasn't too happy about postponing Luke's death. But he didn't want to argue with Harmon. The cattleman could have had McCluskey killed out of hand, too, and surely the outlaw was well aware of it.

“I thought you might like to see what we're doin',” Harmon went on. “You can come with us. Don't try anything, though. You'll die sooner if you do.”

Luke had every intention of dying as late as possible, so he just nodded. “I understand.”

Despite that, if he saw an opportunity to escape or to turn the tables on his captors, he would seize it.

The two shotgun-wielding cowboys kept him covered as he followed Harmon, McCluskey, and Delia out of the stable. Silas was standing right outside the double doors with one of Harmon's men keeping an eye on him.

With his usual smile, Harmon told the liveryman, “You can go on about your business now, Silas. Sorry for the bother and the misunderstanding earlier.”

“That's all right, Mr. Harmon. Wasn't no bother.” Silas sent a sympathetic glance in Luke's direction, but that was all he could do. Anything more would risk another “misunderstanding” like the one that had left him bruised and battered.

The street was empty, when normally it would have been busy on the pleasant late afternoon. Luke suspected the honest citizens of Pine City knew something bad was going on and were lying low, trying to stay out of the way of trouble. He couldn't blame them.

As they passed the café, he saw a shadow move at the window set into the door. He caught a glimpse of fair hair and knew Georgia Walton was watching.

Being a helpless prisoner in front of a beautiful woman was especially annoying, Luke thought, giving him one more score to settle with Harmon and McCluskey when he got the chance.

They headed toward the river. Harmon didn't stop until he strode onto the bridge. The others followed him and had a good view of the wrecked riverboat. About three feet of the smokestack from the boiler room stuck up from the water at a slant. Other parts of the boat's superstructure were visible just under the water.

Half a dozen of Harmon's men were on the riverbank, including one man who was stripped down to the bottom half of a pair of long underwear. He waved at Harmon, who gave him a benevolent nod in return. The man waded out into the river until it was deep enough to swim, then swam out to the area where the riverboat had sunk.

“McCluskey told us where the strongboxes should be,” Harmon explained to Luke. “Rusty there is gonna dive down and locate them.”

The man in the river stopped and took several deep breaths, then ducked his head and disappeared under the water. Seconds passed slowly. Harmon rested both hands on the bridge railing and leaned forward to watch with an intent expression on his weathered face.

After about a minute and a half, Rusty's head popped out of the water. He waved to Harmon again to indicate that he was all right, then floated for a few moments while he drew in deep breaths. He went under again, causing ripples in the water that the current rapidly dissipated.

“I hope he's not havin' too much trouble findin' that gold,” Harmon mused. He looked over at McCluskey. “You'd better have been tellin' us the truth about where it should be, McCluskey.”

“Of course I told you the truth. You let me out of jail, didn't you? I don't have any reason to lie. I want us to work together.”

Sensing some friction between the two, Luke wondered if the bond between Harmon and McCluskey was as close as they had acted like it was. One thing was certain, he thought. Given everything that had happened, either man would be a fool to completely trust the other.

With a splash, Rusty reappeared. He cupped a hand next to his mouth and shouted, “Found it!”

Harmon clenched a fist and shouted back, “Good man!”

Rusty stroked to shore and took the end of a rope that one of the gunmen threw to him. He returned to the center of the river and dived down with it.

The other end of the rope was tied to a heavy chain. With a rattle of links, it began to disappear into the river as Rusty hauled it to him. The rest of the men began attaching the other end of the chain to a draw bar hitched to a couple mules.

The whole process took a while, since Rusty had to come up for air several times while he was working, but finally he gave a thumbs-up and the men leading the mules got them moving. The chain grew taut, and slowly but surely the team hauled the first of the strongboxes out of the stream.

Luke saw pure avarice in the faces of Harmon and McCluskey. It was in Delia's gaze, too, but not as strong. She still seemed more interested in McCluskey than anything else.

No matter how long Luke lived—and that was a matter open to much speculation, of course—he would never understand why Delia had gotten so obsessed with the outlaw so quickly. Some quirk in her brain had caused her to be attached to him, and that bond seemed unbreakable.

By the time the sun was going down, Rusty and the others had repeated the whole business to get the second strongbox out of the river. Harmon's men re-hitched the mules to the wagon and loaded the boxes into the back of the vehicle, grunting and straining with effort.

When that was done, McCluskey said to Harmon, “All right. You've done your gloating. Jensen needs to die now.”

Harmon shook his head. “Not just yet.”

McCluskey's face darkened with anger. “We had a deal.”

“We still do.” Harmon's face hardened. “But you need to understand, McCluskey—I call the shots around here. I said Jensen would die, and he will. I didn't say
when
.”

McCluskey looked like he wanted to argue, and Delia didn't seem pleased, either. But neither said anything.

After a moment, McCluskey nodded. “All right. But don't start thinking I'm just some run-of-the-mill hired gun.”

“Don't worry. I know that.”

One of Harmon's men asked, “Are we staying here in town tonight, boss, instead of heading back out to the ranch?”

“I think so. There's plenty of room at the hotel.” Harmon looked at McCluskey and Delia. “In fact, why don't you and the little lady go on ahead? Tell the desk clerk I said to give you the best room in the house—not countin' my suite, of course.”

“I told you, I'm not a lady,” Delia said.

“Maybe you should try pretendin',” Harmon suggested. “You might find that you like it.”

Before she could respond to that, McCluskey took her arm and said, “Come on.”

They walked off the bridge ahead of Luke, Harmon, and the other two men.

Quietly, Luke said, “You don't fool me, Harmon. You decided to keep me alive in case you need to use me against McCluskey.”

“A smart man never throws away something that might come in handy later on. I think it'll turn out just fine, McCluskey throwin' in with me, but in case it doesn't”—Harmon shrugged—“it's one more way to remind him who's the boss around here.” He regarded Luke thoughtfully for a moment. “You know, if I thought it'd do any good, I might make you the same offer I made him, Jensen. But you'd never throw in with me, and I know that.” He jerked his head at the shotgun-toters. “Take him back to the livery stable and lock him up. One of you stay on guard until somebody comes to relieve you.”

“Sure, boss.” One of the men motioned with the shotgun's twin barrels for Luke to get moving.

The wagon trundled ahead of them, carrying the fortune in gold that had already been responsible for so many men dying.

Luke sat in the tack room, his back leaning against the wall. It was dark in the little room. The only light filtering through the cracks around the door came from a lantern in the stable someone had lit. The feeble yellow glow didn't illuminate much.

Of course, there wasn't much to see.

At least his current situation was much better than it could have been. He was still alive, and Harmon was keeping McCluskey on a tight rein for the time being—or at least attempting to.

The outlaw was too much of a wild card to count on anything, and that went double for his blond girlfriend.

Voices outside the tack room made Luke sit up. Earlier, he'd heard the guard talking to Silas Grant several times, but the voice was different.

It was a woman's voice.

She had come close enough for Luke to understand the words when she spoke again.

“Mr. Harmon told me I could bring Mr. Jensen some supper. You can check with him if you'd like.”

It was Georgia Walton, Luke thought as he got to his feet and moved over to the door. He put his mouth to the crack. “If you've brought me some of Mrs. Grant's excellent cooking, Mrs. Walton, I'll be forever grateful to you.”

“Back off in there, Jensen,” the guard snapped. “And ma'am, you just stay right where you are. Don't come no closer.”

“You can see everything that's on this tray,” Georgia said. “It's not like I'm trying to smuggle in a revolver to him or anything like that.”

“Well, no, I reckon not,” the guard said reluctantly. “Here, let me take a closer look . . . roast beef, taters, greens . . . what's that, some sort of fried pie?”

“Apple,” Georgia said.

The guard chuckled. “Can't let you take that in there. It might have a derringer or a knife baked in it. I got to confiscate that.”

“You must be joking,” Georgia said coldly. “You can see for yourself that tart is much too small to have any sort of weapon in it.”

The guard's jovial attitude disappeared as he snapped, “I told you, you ain't takin' it in there, and that's final. Now hand it over or take the whole mess outta here.”

“Oh, all right. Here. I know you're just going to eat it, though.”

“The boss told me to stay here on guard until somebody comes to relieve me,” the guard said with a whiny, defensive tone in his voice. “Ain't no tellin' how long that'll be. A man gets hungry, you know.”

“Fine. Now you'll let me in?”

“Hell, no! You're not gettin' anywhere close to that bounty hunter. I'll have to take that tray in to him.”

“How are you going to do that and still hold the shotgun on him?” Georgia asked coolly.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I reckon you're right.”

Luke couldn't see the guard, but he could imagine the frown on the man's face as he tried to figure out a solution to the dilemma.

“I got it!” the guard exclaimed, obviously pleased with himself. “Hand the tray to the darky.”

“How is it any different if Silas takes it in to Mr. Jensen?”

“Are you kiddin'? The boss would skin me alive if I was to shoot you, Miz Walton, but if Grant or Jensen either one try anything funny, I can paint the inside o' that tack room red with this Greener and nobody'll care that much. Mr. Harmon already told me I can kill Jensen if he tries to get away.”

“All right,” Georgia said with a sigh. “I hate to trouble you, Silas—”

“Ain't no trouble, Miz Georgia,” Silas assured her. “Just let me have that tray.”

“What you can do, ma'am, is unlock the door while I cover it. Here's the key.” The guard raised his voice. “Jensen, you back as far away from that door as you can get. If you're anywhere close to it when it opens, I'm firin' both barrels o' this scattergun.”

Luke backed away and called, “I'm in the far corner. Don't get trigger-happy.”

The key scraped in the lock.

“All right. Give it back,” the guard snapped. Luke assumed he was talking to Georgia and referring to the key. “Go on in, boy.”

Silas pushed the door open with his foot because both hands gripped a wooden tray with a plate of food and a cup of coffee on it. He stepped into the tack room.

“You can get the food, Jensen.” The guard had the shotgun pressed firmly to his shoulder as he squinted over the barrels. If he fired at so close a range, the double charge of buckshot would kill both Luke and Silas.

Luke glanced past Silas and saw Georgia Walton standing in the center aisle. The lantern light made a golden halo of her hair. The guard had his back to her, and for a second Luke thought she might try to attack him.

He hoped she wouldn't. Even if she succeeded in knocking him out, he would likely jerk the shotgun's triggers as he lost consciousness. It was too big a gamble with Silas's life.

Georgia stayed where she was with an anxious expression on her lovely face. Silas held out the tray toward Luke, who reached to take it. He paused, but only for a fraction of a second. Silas's eyes were wide with fear, and Luke knew that something was going on. He took the tray so as not to alert the guard.

His fingers touched something
underneath
the tray, at the end where Silas's left hand was holding it. Deftly, Luke slid his right hand under the object so that he held it at the same time he was holding that end of the tray. He could tell by the feel what it was.

With the tray to conceal it, Silas had just passed him a knife.

Luke glanced up and locked eyes with Silas, but again the reaction was fleeting so the guard wouldn't notice it. In that heartbeat, Luke acknowledged what Silas and Georgia were doing. The knife was slender, the sort of thing that would be used in a kitchen, and Luke had no doubt Georgia had brought it with her from the café, holding it under the tray.

The guard's insistence on not letting her into the tack room had thrown a kink into her plan, but she had recovered and managed to pass both tray and knife to Silas without Harmon's man noticing. Silas had been quick to realize what she was doing and got the knife to Luke.

Their attempt to help him was also a way of asking him to help them, he realized. They needed someone to break Dave Harmon's stronghold on Pine City.

Luke wouldn't let them down.

“I really appreciate this, Silas.” He hoped Silas and Georgia would understand what he meant.

“All right, Jensen. Back away again,” the guard said impatiently. “Come on outta there, darky. You don't want to make me nervous.”

“I'm comin'.” Silas nodded to Luke, the motion so small it was almost invisible.

But Luke saw it. He knew that if he could get out of there, he could count on Silas for help.

“Close the door on your way out and put that padlock back on it,” the guard told Silas.

Luke thought maybe Silas would try to leave the padlock unfastened but make it look like it was closed. That hope died aborning as Luke heard the guard pull on the lock to make sure it was secure.

So, he was still locked up, but at least he was armed. He stepped over to the door and called through the crack, “Thank you, Mrs. Walton. Your kindness means a great deal to me.” He hoped she understood what he meant by that.

“I wish there was more I could do, Mr. Jensen.”

“Well, what you've already done will just have to be enough.”

 

 

If nothing else, the food was very good. The condemned man ate a hearty meal, as the old saying went, Luke thought.

As he ate, he examined the knife. It was slender, with a bone handle and no hilt. The serrated blade was about five inches long. It was an eating utensil, not a weapon, something designed for cutting a steak rather than inflicting mayhem.

But it would slash a throat just fine, and plunged into a man's back it would reach his heart.

A good workman made do with whatever tools were at hand.

The knife's serrated edge put Luke in mind of a saw blade, and that made him glance toward the door. While the lantern still burned outside and he had some light, he got up and moved closer to examine the obstacles facing him.

The door hinges were on the outside, so that did him no good. The floor was dirt. He might be able to dig out eventually, but that would take too long and someone was bound to notice.

That left the lock. He couldn't get to the padlock itself, but the hasp might be vulnerable. It was nailed into the jamb.

He could tell exactly where the lock was. He could see the hasp's tongue blocking the light coming through the crack and that allowed him to estimate closely the location of the nails.

He counted on the sounds of the guard's pacing around to mask any noises he might make, placed the knife against the four-by-four that served as the jamb, and began sawing.

Even if he had the proper tools, it would be a challenging job. With nothing but a kitchen knife, it was almost impossible. The blade might not even hold up long enough for him to loosen the nails.

But it was his only chance, and he had learned a long time ago that when faced with death, attempting the impossible was better than giving up.